Phantasmagoria
by Scott Press
Summary: An army stands at the gates of Hogwarts and it seems there is nowhere left to run. Harry Potter confronts Lord Voldemort, hoping that it will be enough to give the Order a fighting chance.


**AN:** I performed an edit of the story on June 15th, 2015, to fix the typos and other small mistakes.

**Disclaimer: **top of my profile page. I own nothing.

Harry Potter was mourning.

There was a mixture of emotions: sadness, regret, shame. He was mourning his friend, brother in arms and leader. And although everyone knew how he felt, he didn't show it. He knew his duty – when tragedy struck, he had to keep his head high. He was relied upon by many people, even more now that their leader was dead.

The ceremony was short and simple – they had neither time nor resources for a grand funeral. Only closest friends and family were in attendance. The body was placed in a wooden casket and lowered into the ground. Someone said a few words and the tomb was closed with a marble block, much like the one that decorated the grave of Albus Dumbledore.

It was only the sixth tomb in the small graveyard. Only the best of them were laid to rest like this. Everyone else was cremated and the ashes were spread over the Black Lake. The Hogwarts Valley could only offer so much space – there was no place for sentiments when their survival was at stake. Everyone had had to sacrifice something for the greater good.

Harry stayed a while longer, just watching the silent grave. He would have to get back to the castle soon – there were matters to be discussed. A new leader had to be chosen. The people living in the Valley had grown accustomed to having someone to look up to.

Then there was Voldemort.

It was only logical to expect a move from the Dark Lord, now that his nemesis was dead.

Harry still remembered the helpless rage he felt when he stormed into the room, only to find their leader dead and his assassin standing over him. The man just smiled at Harry, knowing that his end was near. He, just like all the others before him, wasn't expected to return from his mission. Harry cast one look at the assassin, who met his gaze with pride. The man knew what was going to happen – his predecessors had all gone in the same way.

The assassin's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed next to his victim. His body would function for a while, but he was as good as dead. Even a dementor wouldn't find anything to suck out of him.

Later, Harry cursed his impetuousness. He should have had the man arrested and interrogated – obviously, there had to be holes in their security if the assassin succeeded.

Harry wondered if they would offer the leadership to him. It was a possibility and it was one he dreaded. He didn't want to be put in this position. He could fight. He could kill. He couldn't lead.

He looked at the inscription for the last time.

Neville Longbottom

July 30th 1980 – November 2nd 2010

The Boy-Who-Lived. He was a grown man and people still called him that. Neville let it slide and did his job. He had lead the Order ever since Kingsley had died. Before, he preferred being out in the field with Harry, battling the enemy – and he was good at it.

What a sad, senseless irony. Neville Longbottom, Bane of Voldemort, brought down by a knife.

Harry turned away and started the long walk towards the castle.

~~oOo~~

He listened to the scout's report feeling resigned. It was no big surprise, really. Those who had been hoping for a miracle would have to abandon this hope now. They all knew it was coming. Honestly, Harry couldn't imagine why Voldemort allowed them to exist this long.

Today was the first anniversary of Neville's death. As always, time seemed to pass too quickly when they needed to catch a breath and too slowly when they wanted to act. The attacks had been getting more frequent and violent for the last year, stretching the Order to the point where they only had a few hundred capable fighters left. And right now, Voldemort was waiting outside their gates with an army of ten thousand elite troops. Not just Death Eaters either – the scouts spotted werewolves, giants, trolls and even goblins.

There were no resistance cells left outside Hogwarts Valley. This was the last stand of the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort never risked a full-out assault in the past only because of Neville. The prophecy had been their shield. Even those who never put much faith in it had begun to see Neville as their true Savior.

Harry wondered if Voldemort let them live that long just to put on a better show of squashing them like ants.

"_Ten thousand_?" someone exclaimed. "How are we supposed to oppose such a force?"

"We aren't," Harry deadpanned. "Voldemort has conquered Europe and he will not stop until he's conquered the world. Those ten thousand are just a fraction of his forces."

"Harry is right," Hermione said. "Fighting him openly is not an option. We need to be thinking about ways to evacuate."

"And go where?" Harry asked. "Wherever we go, Voldemort will find us and bring his army with him. He's the most powerful wizard in the world. He is as close to a god as a human being can get."

There was consternation, shock and disbelief at his words. This wasn't a speech they expected to hear from their leader. Harry pitied them. They'd been living on borrowed time and some had allowed themselves to hope again, only to have their hopes crushed.

"We need to face the truth," he continued. "We lost. We lost years ago. Ever since Voldemort returned, we have been on the defensive. We've been slowly dying for sixteen years."

"So what do you propose we do?" someone demanded furiously. "Shall we break our wands and walk out there defenseless, to make it easier for him?"

"No," Harry said. "As Hermione said, you need to evacuate the Valley. Save as many of the Order as you can."

"And what about you?" Ron leveled a piercing gaze at him. "Because it sounds like you're not planning to go with us."

"I'm not," Harry said. He had something else in mind. One last gambit. The only one he could think of.

He knew he was good enough to take on any of Voldemort's best: Bellatrix, Malfoy, Mulciber – he had fought and almost killed each of them. But Voldemort was... something else. Only Dumbledore could go toe to toe with the Dark Lord. There simply wasn't another duelist who could match Voldemort's skill and knowledge.

But Harry's plan called for a different approach.

"So what are you going to do?"

He stood up and met the eyes of everyone present.

"Voldemort rules through fear. It isn't a giant leap of logic to assume that if that factor was removed, the power structure he has built would start to crumble. If he's not around to tyrannize people... perhaps the people would stand up for themselves."

"The only way that will happen is if Voldemort dies and the prophecy-"

"Yes, thank you, Dedalus," Harry interrupted the man. "The prophecy said that only Neville could kill him. We don't know if the prophecy was true or not. Personally, I was never a believer in divination."

"Either way," Ron chimed in, "Dedalus is right. Voldemort would need to die and... well, forgive my pessimism, but I don't see how we can do that. Didn't you say a minute ago he was practically a god?"

"An exaggeration," Harry said. "I was making a point. And you're both wrong. Voldemort doesn't need to die. He just needs to be neutralized." He sat back down, smiling sadly. "As Dumbledore said... there are things worse than death."

~~oOo~~

There was only one way into the Valley and it was where Voldemort's army had stopped. Harry looked on from the battlements of the gate the Order had built when they fortified the area shortly after Dumbledore's death. He nodded at the guard captain. He had given orders to repel the assault as long as possible when it inevitably came – they had to buy the others as much time as they could.

"Remember, captain," Harry said. "Whatever happens down there, don't open the gates."

Knowing that his instructions would be followed to the letter, he spun on his heel and apparated sixty feet down, to the flat stretch of land before the gate. The edge of the wards that he helped construct years ago was several hundred feet ahead. Voldemort would have to bring them down first if he wanted to employ his army's full potential in the siege.

Harry looked up at the night sky. There were no stars. Only storm clouds, lightning and rain.

_Very climactic._

He started walking, wrapping the cloak tightly around himself. He would be spotted long before he reached the camp's fortifications, if he hadn't been already. Hopefully, his lone approach would be enough to catch Voldemort's interest. He needed to meet the Dark Lord face to face if this was to work. He didn't need long, just a moment – enough to meet his eyes.

He would have to cast the spell, but it wasn't a concern. He trusted his reflexes.

He couldn't be more than three hundred feet away when a rider set out to meet him. One glance was all that Harry needed to confirm that it wasn't your average Death Eater. His cloak and robes were decorated with various distinctions that Voldemort bestowed on his commanders. The rider galloped towards him, circled him once andvreared his black steed onto its hind legs. Then he turned to face Harry – his mask was plain and white. The contrast with the black cloak and the dark sky behind made for an oddly fascinating sight. Frightening, even, for someone of lesser spirit.

"Who are you and what do you want?" the Death Eater demanded. "If you wish to negotiate, you're wasting your time."

"I'm not here to negotiate anything," Harry said. "I want to speak with Lord Voldemort."

"For what purpose, if not negotiations?"

Harry smiled and took off his hood. The rain soaked his hair almost instantly.

"My name is Harry Potter and I am the Commander of the Order of the Phoenix. I hoped that Lord Voldemort would extend me the courtesy of meeting me in person."

The Death Eater tugged at the reins and turned his mount around, barking out a short 'wait here' as he galloped back, disappearing between the tents. Harry watched him until the rider escaped his sight. He noticed sentries stationed at the fortifications. They were mostly Death Eaters, but there was a troll and several goblins watching him as well. He didn't see any dementors. Perhaps Voldemort had decided not to use them in this campaign. As useful as they were, their presence among ten thousand soldiers was bound to lower morale.

He didn't have to wait long. He counted three lightning strikes and then a shadow shot up from somewhere in the camp. Voldemort flew the distance in mere seconds, a tail of smoke trailing behind him, and finally landed in front of Harry, as terrifying as ever.

An abomination of a human being, Voldemort stood seven feet tall, his skin pale and waxy, eyes a vibrant red, even beyond the veil of darkness and falling rain.

"Harry Potter," he said, baring his teeth in a caricature of a grin. "We meet again. It's been years since we spoke alone."

"It has," Harry agreed. "I think it was when Neville and I gutted Fenrir Greyback. How time flies."

"Ah, that's right," Voldemort said. "My Bane died exactly one year ago. I hope I didn't interrupt the festivities."

"There were none," Harry replied. "We haven't had time to commiserate for the last few months. You saw to that."

"Not without satisfaction. It really is an exhilarating feeling, to see your enemies fall apart. I almost wish you could experience it."

Harry could tell the Dark Lord was drawing pleasure from their conversation. He couldn't say the same.

"Perhaps I still can." This was the moment he was waiting for. He wouldn't get a better chance.

"I respect your skill, Harry Potter. I don't want to underestimate you, but you are making it easier by the second. Whatever your numbers, you cannot hope to prevail."

"Not all of us, no. I'm aware that some will have to make the ultimate sacrifice... But we're prepared to pay this price."

"And what do you hope to purchase with your blood?"

Harry looked up into Voldemort's eyes. Being a sceptic when it came to divination and destiny, he never really believed in the prophecy. He certainly couldn't figure out what the 'power he knows not' was. Neville didn't possess some mythical ability that would turn the tables on Voldemort, or if he did, it had been lost with him.

Harry was betting everything on a power that Voldemort not only knew about, but had mastered. His only advantage was in the element of surprise. He couldn't say if the way in which he developed his skill was unique – there was no one to compare it to. All he knew was that he hadn't yet met a wizard or witch who could oppose him once he cast the spell. Dumbledore probably would have been able to, but his and Neville's mentor died before he even discovered his prowess with that particular branch of magic.

It was a reasonable assumption that Voldemort was at least as good as Dumbledore, if not better. After all, he was said to be able to detect lies without actually using the spell. This was mastery on a level most people could only dream about, but it was also superficial. Harry wasn't bad at detecting lies himself. There was hardly any magic involved there – wizard or muggle, body language could betray a lie as easily as Veritaserum. Catching surface thoughts required subtlety and that was a quality that Harry lacked. Hermione once described his technique as 'blunt and vulgar'. He didn't care as long as it worked.

He tried to look proud and defiant. Voldemort must have heard about his victims, but he met his gaze without reservations. Harry smiled. Good. That was all he needed – just a second. Time didn't matter where he was going.

"_Legilimens_."

~~oOo~~

Harry had learned that people themselves were the best analogy for the mind. No two people were the same, but on the most basic level, they were all similar, built upon the same foundation.

He had met and defeated several witches and wizards who excelled at Occlumency. Every one of them had used a different base as the primary line of defense, but there was a common pattern among them. Once, it was an ocean, another time the vast expanse of space. One of them tried to confuse him by going in a different direction and kept throwing him into different environments – from a forest to a desert, then a battlefield and a labyrinth. No matter how hard they tried however, Harry always found his way out of the trap, because there was always something to latch onto, a representation of something physical or abstract, some kind of phenomenon. It was always a single thought, one idea – and it was enough to break even the staunchest defenses.

But this...

Voldemort's mind was protected by something he had never seen before, something that he always took for a myth. Authors liked to conjure up the image of a spectrum to illustrate their point – at one end, there was an unorganized mind, with everything laid out for the intruder to see. At the other end was absolute mastery, a concept that Snape so liked to bring up in the days when he taught Neville – a clear mind. Harry didn't deny that Snape was good – one of the best he'd ever seen – but even the Potions Master was far from that perfect state.

A clear mind. Of course, Harry was convinced it just wasn't possible. Even thinking about nothing was thinking about _something_. Awake or asleep, there was always something present.

Well, it wasn't the first time Voldemort had proved someone wrong.

Anywhere he turned, all he could see was a never-ending expanse of white space. It wasn't light or the color white though – that would be something. This was a blank slate. Not a shred of thought, nor a whisper of emotion.

Perfect Occlumency.

He remembered telling Hermione once that if proof existed that nothing was impossible, it would be this. After all, what could be harder to achieve? The mind was the most complex thing a sentient being could perceive. Nothing else, not even magic itself could be manipulated to that extent and with such precision. What else could rival such unparalleled, absolute control?

Once again, Voldemort lived up to his reputation. He really did push the boundaries of magic further than anyone else. As far as Harry was concerned, this was something for the history books.

Even so, there was no going back. However well Voldemort had hidden his mind, Harry wasn't going to give up. He couldn't. The lives of all his friends depended on his success. And there were ways around even the best Occlumency. However perfect, the technique itself was flawed. A skilled opponent knew of more than one way to attack. If the mind was hidden well enough, the key was to goad the other person to reveal themselves, create a chink in their armor. Harry had done it before.

His own defense didn't rely on this most common form of Occlumency. He let the enemy approach, lured them in and led them around by the nose, taunting with false images and broken memories. He was never able to clear his mind to an acceptable degree, but he turned this weakness into his strength. A vivid imagination became his weapon.

He backed away from the emptiness and immediately it blurred into multiple shades of gray. He stepped back a little further and more colors appeared – now his surroundings looked more like an abstract painting. But even in this imaginary canvas, a thin line of blank surface followed him, Voldemort's presence shaped into a spear. It cut through the whirling rainbow like a hot knife through butter, trying to reach and pierce him, throw him out.

Harry turned around and started running. As he did, shapes began emerging from the myriad of colors, some separating, others coming together and within a second – or was it a year? - he was back on the highland in front of Hogwarts' gates. Rain was pouring down from the sky in unrelenting torrents, as if buckets of water were being dumped from the clouds.

He fell to his knees, taking short, shallow breaths. Voldemort was there as well. He stood in the same spot, between Harry and his camping army, grinning like a demon. His wand was moving in small circles, like a predator's tail just before the leap.

"A good try," the Dark Lord said, "but useless. I am not a weak-minded fool. Your tricks will not work on me."

Harry leaned forward, now on all fours, and spit out phlegm. He tried to stand, but felt Voldemort's wand on his neck.

"I've never seen anything like it," Harry blurted. "How did you do it? I thought perfect Occlumency was impossible."

"There's a lot you don't know about magic. I traveled the world for years. I rediscovered magics others thought lost."

"Where?" Harry asked. "This isn't something you can just stumble upon in a mundane library. Was it Alexandria? The Imperial Library of Rome? I heard rumors... of scrolls, discovered in the ruins-"

"I thought you would have other worries just before your death," Voldemort said with a sneer. "Don't delude yourself. Mercy is not in my plans for tonight."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Harry said. "Because neither is it in mine."

Even though he couldn't see Voldemort from his position, he could _feel_ the Dark wizard go completely still. He must have finally noticed that something wasn't quite right. That Harry sounded too confident for a man moments away from death.

Harry sprang to his feet and smiled. It was a cold, cruel smile. Voldemort had fallen prey to his own pride and stepped right into the trap.

It would have been useless to try and break through his defense when there was nothing to direct the force at. He had to make Voldemort provide the opening himself, lure the Dark Lord into bringing out his thoughts – the smallest thread would be enough. Something for him to grab and shatter the blank image of Occlumency.

Voldemort was happy to follow him once he started backing away. The Dark Lord thought they were back on the field, when really it was just an illusion that Harry had conjured up from his own thoughts. Good thing his deception worked. The illusion was already starting to fall apart. He hadn't had enough time to make it sturdier.

Voldemort slashed with his wand. The Killing Curse flew from his wand, but when it reached Harry's chest, the green light dissipated into an inky fog.

Harry lunged at Voldemort and threw his hands forward, catching the the man in an iron grip. They didn't fall on the ground - by Harry's will, they were hurled in a straight line as the false image of reality around them turned into a grey whirlwind.

They traveled like this until everything turned white again and for a single, blood-freezing moment Harry thought that his trick hadn't worked after all. If Voldemort managed to recover from this surprise assault, he wouldn't let himself be caught off guard like that again. It would be over...

But then he spotted a darker point over Voldemort's shoulder. It grew larger as they hurtled closer and within the amount of time that was impossible to describe by any worldly standards, it was big enough for a man to get through. Harry adjusted their flight and they went right through it.

From blinding brightness he was plunged into the deepest darkness. H landed roughly on some flat surface and rolled for a moment before stopping. He groped around in the dark, but Voldemort was nowhere to be found. Likely he retreated deeper into his mind to set traps along the way. Harry corrected his glasses and stood up, trying to find balance without the benefit of sight.

Like before, it was a place completely homogeneous in its nature. There was nothing besides the all-encompassing darkness. It was, of course, a success – he got past the first line of defense. But even though he'd just defeated perfect Occlumency, he didn't doubt that things would only get harder going forward.

This was just the beginning.

~~oOo~~

Harry extended his arms before him and took a step a step forward. The lack of sight was disorienting. He started walking slowly, fingers crooked like claws, ready to grasp if he found anything by accident. At the same time, he kept turning his head from left to right and looking up and down. He felt ridiculous, shambling like a blind zombie – what must Voldemort be thinking?

Suddenly his foot was slowed down while taking the next step, as if he stepped into fresh cement, and momentum almost brought him down. He backed away until his feet were free and carefully knelt down. He reached toward whatever it was that he stumbled upon – his fingers closed around nothing. It felt like a heavy fog, cool to the touch. It reminded him of memories in a pensive – neither liquid nor gas, although somehow more solid than both. He tried to find the floor beneath the fog, but either there was no floor, or it was lower than he could reach.

He laid down on the floor and plunged his arm as deep as he could. Still no bottom, but something in his vision moved. For a moment, he saw the faint outline of his arm. Undisturbed, the fog was as pitch black as everything else in here, but when it swirled around his hand, it turned brighter.

Harry waved his hand around faster and the fog became gray, almost white for a second. He lowered his other hand over the edge and waved them both. The fog clung to his hands as he lit it up. He exclaimed in triumph – once it became white, the fog didn't revert to the previous state. He gathered some of it into his hands. Now he just had to figure out what to do with it...

The now bright fog, illuminating the darkness somewhat, morphed into a clawed arm, fingers snapping around his wrist. The effect spread in all directions and darkness was chased away as more of the fog now turned white on its own. A body with a grotesque face formed and attached itself to the ghostly arm. Now Harry could see that he was lying on the edge of something that looked like a smooth cliff made of some black stone. The space filled with the fog had to be very deep. He certainly couldn't see far enough to determine where it ended.

Now the man-ghost was dragging him down. Instinct told him that it probably wasn't a good idea. This had to be one of Voldemort's traps.

He yanked his arm up, freeing himself from the ghost. It didn't matter much, seeing as now hundreds of other ghosts formed and all looked eager to drag him to wherever the pit was going.

He sprang to his feet and started running back in the direction he first came from. Unfortunately, it didn't help much. After maybe two hundred feet, he barely managed to slow down on the slick surface when he reached another edge. He jogged alongside it as fast as he dared, aware of the horde of ghosts following him. It took mere moments to reach yet another edge. Two of them met at a ninety-degree angle. Harry guessed there was another edge that he hadn't seen. It appeared he was standing on some sort of rectangular platform, but he wouldn't be able to confirm his suspicions. The ghosts had already blocked his way. He wondered why they were coming from only this one direction.

He turned back to see if any were coming up over the edge behind him, but there was no edge. Instead, there were two walls, walls that hadn't been there before. He was literally backed into a corner.

The original ghost now stood an arm's length away. Harry pressed himself against the smooth wall, his own mind racing. This was a trap. A simple trap, nothing more. Voldemort surely wants him out of his head, so the ghosts were probably here to do just that.

That same hand that had tried to pull him off the platform now clenched around his throat, squeezing. Harry instinctively grabbed the ghostly limb, trying to pry it off, to no avail.

Faced with imminent failure, he began to panic. This couldn't end like this, he was nowhere near his destination. He had a job to do, and Voldemort managed to beat him with the very first trap.

The ghost bared its teeth and licked its lips, about to drag Harry back to reality...

_Wait. Reality? Ghosts?_

He almost to let go of the hand choking him and smacked himself in the forehead. Of course! He was such an idiot.

"He he he,"he wheezed out. "You're not getting rid of me so easily."

And just like that, he was free. The ghosts were still trying to catch him, but their hands went right through him. His near-captors started dissolving back into fog. As it happened, the fog receded and darkened, leaving Harry without the benefit of sight once more.

Unfortunately he'd forgotten about the walls he was leaning against. They disintegrated in a blink of an eye and before Harry could react, he was falling back. He swiped his arms madly and one luckily found the edge.

Heart rattling madly, he hung from the platform. It turned out to be only inches thick, so there was nothing to stop his lower body from swinging. He swayed back forth, fingers slipping from the smooth stone, doing his best not to move. Finally, he stopped, but the damage had been done. The mad swinging had brightened the fog enough for it to turn white again. The familiar ghost grinned at him devilishly. Harry stared at the thing, fully aware that it was incorporeal and couldn't hinder his efforts anymore.

His hopes were swiftly crushed when a moment later the ghost had Harry's wrist in his grip again. Then the ghost squeezed.

Harry hissed in pain and let go of the platform. Now hanging on only one hand, he stared at the ghosts beginning to close in around him. Apparently the 'you're just ghosts' trick only worked once. Yes, very clever of Voldemort to think of that.

There was no way in hell he was pulling himself up onto the platform with the ghosts getting closer and what good was it anyway? He shook his head. There were only two choices left. The first option was to pull out of the fight entirely. He sure as hell wasn't going to do that.

Just as the ghosts' leader grabbed him, Harry let go off the edge and the two of them started falling down into the abyss.

~~oOo~~

Either it wasn't as deep as he'd thought, or he was falling with unthinkable speed, because after just a few seconds – or so it seemed – he spotted something in the graying darkness below. His surroundings grew brighter as he fell until it settled on the gray-silver shade of a full moon night. He started shivering – the temperature suddenly dropped and a loud _woosh_ drilled its way into his ears. He turned and spotted the white face of the moon hanging high to his right.

Before he had time to process what was happening, he passed through something freezing cold and came out the other end wet.

_A cloud?_ he thought.

Before he had time to guess further, he slammed into the ground. His back exploded with pain and for a long moment he laid there, face twisted in a grimace. He couldn't make a sound – the air had been forced out of his lungs on impact – so he just waited, hoping it would end soon.

He rolled onto his stomach and hoisted himself up to all fours, fingers digging into the cold, wet soil.

"Aargh," he grunted and gasped, breathing heavily. Trying to stand up was no good, he was shaking too much. Crawling forward, he stretched an arm too far and another spasm shot through him. With another burst of effort he rolled over again. The coldness of the ground helped, gradually soothing the pain.

A part of him wanted to stay there and not venture any further into Voldemort's mind. The Dark Lord was clever. There had to be a safe way to get down here, but Harry hadn't had time to find it. He wondered how high the fall was.

It didn't seem like he'd broken any bones or sustained any other injury aside from feeling like a broken egg. His muscles still trembled, as if made of jelly.

There was no time to waste. He could only retain control for so long. Eventually Voldemort would wrestle it back from him and he would be violently expelled from the Dark Lord's mind. He had to make sure that by the time it happened, he'd achieved his goal. The future of the Order, perhaps even the world, depended on it.

He stood up, collapsing a few times in the attempt, and looked around him. He was in the front yard of an old house. The building was a big, three-story rectangular block. It stood at the top of a hill, encircled by an iron-wrought fence that looked like it had been made of spears linked together. The grass had grown tall and almost reached his waist.

He found a stone path among the overgrown weeds and looked at the house. It was in no better condition than the garden. Bricks had fallen out in places and window shutters were either broken or missing. The only source of light other then moon was a window on the first floor. Something yellow flickered inside, perhaps a lit fireplace.

Harry decided to inspect the area before he went inside the building. It seemed like the only logical destination, but he wouldn't put anything past Voldemort.

He didn't walk thirty feet before his way was blocked.

Snakes of all kinds, big, small, plain and colorful slithered out of the grass, hissing and threatening with their fangs. Hundreds, perhaps thousands gathered in front of him, a living barrier of venomous anger ready to leap, should he dare take one more step away from the house. Harry froze. Voldemort wasn't giving him a choice, it seemed. He turned and tried a different direction, across the garden, but he stopped abruptly upon seeing more snakes coiling in front of him. He jumped back, shaking himself of the sensation of the slick bodies against his ankles. It's not that he found snakes disgusting, far from it. In a way, he admired them. Silent and deadly, moving in the shadows - much like Voldemort had been in the beginning of the war, before he started gaining more followers. He just didn't like snakes on principle.

Voldemort had achieved a mastery of Parseltongue that allowed him to almost turn it into another branch of magic. He didn't even have to compel snakes to his will anymore. They were drawn to him. He used them as spies. They had caused a lot of trouble at first, before the Order figured out how the Dark Lord was eavesdropping on secret conversations held in the deepest parts of the Forbidden Forest. Eventually they cast an enormous spell over Hogwarts. There hadn't been a single snake in the Valley in almost a decade.

Wary of the fanged menaces following him, Harry made his way to the house. The front door was slightly ajar, the cold seeping inside. He walked through the spacious hall and towards the stairs. That seemed to be the way to go. He looked over his shoulder and sighed in relief – the snakes weren't following him anymore.

Leaning heavily on the handrail, he climbed the stairs, bracing himself before each step. The lingering pain flared up with every move. The first trap had been simple, but efficient – it didn't take much to devise the fall and it did more to help Voldemort than the ghosts.

Cringing at every creak the old floorboards gave, he finally found himself on the right floor. He knew where he should go. All doors but one were closed. That last one was wide open and the same warm glow he'd seen outside spilled out into the dark hallway. He walked inside carefully - there was no doubt this was another trap and he wasn't moving forward without solving the puzzle.

The room was fairly well lit by the enormous fire roaring in the hearth. Two armchairs were facing away from him. Senses heightened, he stepped forward around one of them.

At the sight of two corpses he suddenly became aware of the stench filling the room. How did he miss it earlier?

_Must be another of Voldemort's tricks._

Covering his face with a sleeve, he examined both dead. A man and a woman – well, what was left of them. He couldn't tell their age. The wrinkled skin hid it too well for him to guess. The woman was in an expensive-looking nightgown, the man in a suit. The clothes had a kind of aged look to them, like a garment that hung untouched in a wardrobe for decades.

A realization struck him. He had never seen this house with his own eyes, but he'd heard about it. An old mansion on a hill... and he was in Voldemort's head...

This was Voldemort's father's house. Where Voldemort would have grown up, had his father not abandoned his pregnant mother.

That explained nothing about what he should do to move forward, however. He should probably go back outside and try to get through the snakes somehow. This room looked like simple bait.

He turned around and for a short moment his heart seemed to have jumped up to his throat. He stumbled back, stopping at the wall.

A boy, no older than eleven, stood behind the open door. Harry hadn't seen him before, hidden in the corner. He slipped into a defensive stance, even though he didn't have a wand here. Boy or not, he wasn't going to underestimate him. He'd only seen him once, in a memory Dumbledore had showed him years ago, of his first meeting with the Dark Lord.

The young Tom Riddle looked at him with the intensity in his eyes Harry had only seen in Dumbledore. They were cold and dark, almost black, but everything else about him belied that coldness. His face was curious, his posture relaxed. He had his hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted to one side, looking at Harry. He even smiled a little.

"Hello," the boy said. "Are you Harry?"

The question was so unexpected that it took him a moment to find his voice.

"What makes you say that?"

The boy pointed to a shelf.

"You look like Harry from the picture."

He looked in that direction and, indeed, there was a picture of him there, next to the picture of Neville. There were other pictures as well. Almost every member of the Order of the Phoenix.

As if a veil dropped from his eyes, only now Harry noticed that the walls of the room weren't bare, as he thought previously. On the contrary – every inch of available space was covered in picture frames of various shapes and sizes, creating a bizarre mosaic. The room seemed to grow in size as more pictures appeared wherever he looked. They popped up on the walls, shelves, tables, the mantelpiece...

He gulped loudly, noticing a picture of Narcissa Malfoy among Order members rather than Death Eaters. Did that mean that Voldemort knew Narcissa had changed sides? If yes, she was in danger. Who else knew? Was she even still alive? Come to think of it, they hadn't heard from her in a while. Snape insisted she must have problems sending a message safely. Others, Harry included, weren't so sure. They had no way of confirming their suspicions. If Voldemort found a traitor in his ranks, he would've handled it quietly. Discipline among his followers depended on him maintaining the image of unity. He'd discovered other spies before and not once had he made a show of it. It was a smart approach. Making an example of the traitor would inspire fear, but also doubt and Voldemort couldn't afford that if he wanted to conquer the world.

"You're Tom, right?" Harry asked. "Tom Riddle."

"Yes," the boy replied. "How do you know my name?" he asked suspiciously. "There isn't a picture of me in the entire house. I know. I've looked. How do you know that?"

"What about the... the people in the armchairs? Are they... your parents?"

"What people?" In a flash, the suspicion was gone, replaced again by curiosity.

"Them," Harry said, pointing to the armchairs.

The boy left his hiding spot, marched around Harry and stopped in front of the fireplace, looking puzzled.

"What people?" he repeated. "Why are you doing that?"

"W-what?" Harry asked, holding back a cough. He felt tears forming in his eyes from the stench.

"Covering your face."

"You can't smell it?"

_Well, of course he can't! Why would Voldemort subject himself to this when he's in charge?_

"You're strange," the boy decided. "You seem to see and smell things that aren't there. That's not a good thing, even in the Wizarding World, Harry."

This wouldn't be nearly as unsettling if the boy wasn't grinning like a wolf when he said it. It stirred a memory in Harry. Hermione once said something very similar to Neville, when they didn't yet know about the basilisk.

Suddenly the boy didn't look innocent anymore.

Maybe that was the trap. Everything about him was to make Harry lower his guard, allowing Voldemort to pounce when it would be least expected. Harry shook his head. He shouldn't have allowed himself to be so careless. It didn't matter if it was a boy, it was still Voldemort.

"I think I should go," Harry said, turning to the door.

The door slammed shut in front of him. He turned to look at Riddle. He stood next to his decaying father, hands in pockets, with a smirk on his face and a devilish flicker in his eyes.

Harry grabbed the doorknob, turned it and pulled. Nothing. The door wouldn't budge.

"You want to leave already?" the boy asked. "But we've only just met."

That was when he noticed something coiling around his feet. He flinched, seeing snakes emerge from the shadows, getting in through cracks in the walls and slithering from behind furniture. Some even dropped in through the chimney – fire didn't seem to hurt them.

The boy knelt down and let one of the reptiles slide into his sleeve. The visible bulge revealed the snake traveling up his arm and peeking out from the collar of the boy's shirt before finally settling on his shoulders like a harmless pet.

"I have such things to show you, Harry," Tom Riddle purred menacingly. "After all, it's what you're looking for. Unknown things, _hidden_ things. I'll show you. You'll watch. And it will burn your eyes out of your skull."

Before he knew it, the elongated bodies trapped his feet in place. He flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance, but momentum brought him down. He fell on top of the slithering mass and Riddle's snakes didn't waste a second. They pinned his arms and within moments he was spread-eagled on the floor, completely at Riddle's mercy.

The boy stepped forward and stood over him as more snakes constricted around his neck, rapidly cutting off air. Harry grunted in effort, trying to move, but Riddle leaned down, grabbing his face painfully. The snake around his shoulders slithered down and coiled on Harry's chest, head raised, swaying in his field of vision, fangs dripping with venom.

Harry's thoughts were racing one another. It looked like Riddle was planning to have the snake bite him – it would probably push him out, like the ghosts had tried to do. He had to think of something, fast.

"Are you sure we can't - ugh - resolve this peacefully?"

_Oh, that was a brilliant line, Potter._

"So many questions," the boy snapped. "Isn't it enough that you're here? If you want answers, get them yourself."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but didn't say a word, having realized something. Did questions make Riddle angry?

_Maybe if I can piss him off, I'll be able to distract him... It's my best chance._

"Don't you think it would be mutually beneficial if we could work together? You could help me, I could help you," he said and had to stop himself from biting his own tongue. What a stupid thing to say to Voldemort.

"Why would I need your help with anything? _I don't need_ _help_, especially not yours."

"Well, I do," Harry said. "Why is there a picture of Narcissa Malfoy next to my friends on that shelf? Shouldn't she be with other Death Eaters? What-"

"Shut up!" Riddle cried. "You're talking too much! Too many questions!"

"What are you planning to do? And is this fair, keeping me bound like this? I can't move. Hell, even breathing is getting- hard-" He stopped, because the snake around his neck coiled itself a little more, squeezing just enough to cut off his words. He stretched as far as he could to unblock the airway and took little gasping breaths – it was all he could do now.

His words seemed to have done something, however. Riddle's pale face darkened to a shade of pink and he too was breathing heavily, even though he didn't have dozens of snakes restraining him. He knelt over Harry and leaned in so close their noses were almost touching. On reflex, Harry's squinted, trying to zero in on some single point, wondering how ridiculous he must look.

The boy bared his teeth in a primal predatory grimace, his eyes constantly moving, like a madman's. His dark irises flashed a bright red. Harry could feel the hot breath on his face.

"You think you're so clever, _Harry_," the boy hissed, emphasizing his name. "You're not the first to think himself better than me. There were others before you, powerful, talented wizards who underestimated me... now they're all dead."

"Tough talk," Harry choked out, "to a bound enemy."

"Rahh!" the boy screamed. "I caught you. I tricked you! _You lost!"_

"You look- like a boy... but we both know who you are, ah-"

He'd gone too far. His throat was squeezed even further. Now he was being strangled. Riddle jumped to his feet and started pacing briskly around the room, furious.

"You know _nothing_, Harry Potter," the boy said, seething. "You don't even know my name. You guessed before and you guessed wrong!"

Harry was only barely paying attention at this point. He was starting to lose consciousness and only willpower kept him from giving in.

He couldn't give up. This was his only chance. There would be no rematch.

_"Leave him!"_ the boy shrieked suddenly. The snakes moved as one and Harry was free before he even noticed what happened. He sat up, coughing, a hand flying to his throat. Focused on stabilizing his breathing, he didn't pay attention to what the boy with a temper was doing and the next thing he knew, that boy was stalking towards him with a blade.

It looked like a thin sword. Short, delicate – suited to a child's hand. It shot forward in the general direction of his chest. He swatted it away at the last second, hissing as he felt the metal cut open the skin on his arm.

Undeterred by the failed attack, the boy lunged again.

"I am Voldemort's Wrath," he growled, "and I will not be toyed with!"

Now that he could breathe again, Harry had to contend with the stench of decomposing bodies. Being almost squished to death did nothing to alleviate his injury from the earlier fall. It all hit him at the same time – the pain, amplified tenfold, and the need for air while he wanted nothing else than to stop breathing in this horrid smell. His only advantage was his opponent's small stature.

He launched himself off the floor, tackling the boy – Wrath, as he called himself – and wrestled the thin blade from his hand. The boy fought, kicking and screaming, but his arrogance was his undoing.

"You shouldn't have let me go," Harry snapped, aiming the sharp tip of the blade at the boy's throat and pushed, not even sure if he was doing something wrong, if he had defeated the trap or perhaps if this had been Voldemort's plan all along. In that moment, there was no logic, just action.

He pushed, hard, and the blade slid in smoothly, encountering little resistance. Harry pulled it back a little and pushed again.

There was a soft sound of something breaking and the bloodied tip sprang up from the top of the boy's head.

Rational thoughts flowed back in a rush and now Harry noticed that he had put the blade _through_ the boy's head. He glanced down, expecting to see fear, pain or both on his face, but it was frozen in an expression of anger.

For the shortest moment he felt terrified, disgusted – he'd just murdered a child – before he remembered where he was and why and who that child was.

He rolled off of the body. A fitting addition to the decor, considering that Voldemort's parents were also here, just as dead.

He laid there for a moment before breathing became too hard again and forced him to get up and look for an exit. The door was still closed and it didn't look like it would be opening any time soon. He stumbled over to the nearest window and pushed it open.

It was directly above what looked like a veranda at the back of the house. The tiled roof slanted a bit, but he could make the jump – it couldn't be more than six or seven feet.

He put one leg over the windowsill, thankful for the fresh air outside, when suddenly the entire building _lurched_.

He froze, gripping the window frame for balance.

"What the-"

His next words turned into a shriek when what seemed like a shockwave rolled through the house, which started collapsing at an astonishing rate. From his position he could feel it crumble and when the wave reached the room, he saw it too. Foot by foot, the entire structure all but disintegrated. He watched with a mixture of fear and fascination and before his self-preservation instinct kicked in properly, the wave of destruction reached him and he tumbled down with the debris, protecting his face as best he could.

~~oOo~~

For a short moment he thought of being buried under tons of bricks, wood and glass before coherent thought became obsolete. This fall, much slower and shorter, wasn't as frightening of an experience as falling what could have been several miles at a speed that would have guaranteed death to any living being had it all not happened inside Voldemort's mind.

At this point, Voldemort had no reason to be subtle with his traps anymore. Harry had just put a blade through his skull. If he cared to guess when the Dark Lord would go completely ballistic, it would be now.

Alas, he appeared to be wrong. Or perhaps he'd gotten deep enough already that Voldemort couldn't consciously oppose him anymore, and had to rely on the way he'd organised his mind.

The ground split beneath the house and swallowed it like an earthquake would. Harry rolled down what felt like a steep slope along with the debris. He kept his hands up to protect his face. Getting his eyes injured wasn't something he was willing to risk.

He tumbled and rolled until the slope eased into a more level surface and he finally stopped when his back slammed into a fragment of a wall. The impact wasn't nearly as bad as when he hit the ground before, but it didn't do his already sore body any favors. He trashed for a moment when his muscles contracted uncontrollably.

Blinking, he slowly opened his eyes. It was dark down here... whatever this place was... but there was just enough light to see by. The first thing he saw in front of him was Wrath's body. The needle-like sword was still stuck in the dead boy's head. The rest of him wasn't in much better condition. The fall did a number on the corpse. Limbs stuck out at angles suggesting very painful fractures, were Wrath still alive.

Harry blinked again, because a new light entered his field of view, assaulting his diluted pupils. He rolled to the side, away from it, but could still see a pair of black shoes in his peripheral vision. Whoever that was, they were probably carrying a torch or a lamp.

The shoes, dirtied by the dust, walked up to the body. One of them nudged Wrath, rolling what was left of him over, presumably to give the shoes' owner a better look.

"Pity," the stranger said. "I liked him. Such a little firecracker."

The shoes then approached Harry. Logically, he knew that staying passive probably wasn't the best idea, but he was just too tired to move.

"You don't look too good either."

The newcomer knelt next to him and placed the lamp directly in front of his face.

"Too bad I don't care."

Harry was hauled to his feet with surprising strength, but the moment the stranger let go of him, he collapsed right back, his shaking legs unable to keep him standing. The stranger sighed and pulled him up again.

"Don't fall. I have no patience for weakness," came a warning.

This time, he managed not to fall to the ground, finding support in the wall fragment that had stopped his descent. He sat on the edge and waited until his vision cleared. The stranger lifted the lamp, observing him closely.

"You're not much, but you'll do," he said. "Follow me."

Harry stood up, leaning on the debris, trying to control the shaking.

_Pull yourself together, dammit! You've come too far to give up now._

"You'll walk or you'll crawl, but you _are_ coming with me," the stranger said with a low growl.

"Do you have something to drink, by any chance?" Harry croaked, coughing. His throat, full of dust, was begging for some water.

Something hit his midsection, nearly knocking him over. He picked up an old fashioned bottle, popped the cap and drank greedily, only to spit most of it out.

"Fuck!" he swore, coughing. "Just water would have been enough."

Firewhiskey didn't really quench his thirst, but at least his throat wasn't so dry anymore.

"Beggars can't be choosers," the stranger snapped. "Come on."

Harry followed the cloaked and hooded man, walking a path among debris left of the house and protruding rocks. He still felt like shit, but some strength was coming back as they ventured deeper, and he could walk without nearly falling every other step.

He was being led down a wide, low tunnel. It was mostly straight, though there was a soft curve or two. They had to be pretty deep underground in Voldemort's imagined world because it was much too hot for Harry's comfort. He tried asking for another drink – he would have even taken the bloody whiskey – but his guide ignored him and remained silent for the rest of the trek.

Eventually the tunnel started rising considerably, but even the convenient steps that appeared out of the blue did little to improve Harry's mood. He was hurting all over, sweating like a pig, his throat dried up again and the only thing he could be sure of was that this was another trap. He had no idea how long he could keep going. Determination only went so far. If he didn't find Voldemort's inner sanctum soon, his gambit will have been for nothing.

The tunnel ended eventually and opened into a large chamber. The steps led them to a raised section of the floor in the middle. Harry stood at the edge, taking in the surroundings while his guide momentarily disappeared in the shadows.

The chamber was a simple cuboid in shape. It wasn't just a carved out space in natural rock. The walls and ceiling appeared to be made of obsidian, or perhaps dark marble, and reflected the dim light cast by blue-flame torches. Most of the floor was flooded and only the center rose above water. Several evenly spaced columns held up the ceiling. The air was unusually fresh for an underground chamber and much cooler than in the tunnel.

There were two exits that he could see. One through which he came in and one on the opposite end, with a corresponding staircase beyond, climbing further up.

The center platform was occupied by a few worktables, their wooden surfaces covered in runes, and cabinets packed with books. There were cauldrons full of lazily bubbling potions and instruments similar to the ones in the Hogwarts Headmaster's office. Some books laid scattered about opened to pages with diagrams too complex for Harry to decipher. Scholarly pursuits were never his forte.

There were also several containers of different kinds with strange creatures inside: he noticed what could pass for an otter if not for the mouth with several rows of razor sharp teeth, a disgusting worm, as large as his arm, that appeared to be drooling some green slime that was being collected by an apparatus hooked up to the terrarium, and something that looked like a nightmarish scorpion the size of a large cat. The decor was completed by a series of glass cabinets containing preserved naked corpses of a human, goblin, centaur, and a woman that he assumed to be a Veela. Pieces of flesh had been meticulously carved out to reveal key organs.

Desperate for a sip of water, he knelt at the edge and gathered some into his cupped hands.

"I wouldn't drink that if I were you," the familiar voice of his guide warned. "It's poisoned."

Harry let the water fall between his fingers and wiped his hands on his cloak.

"Poisoned?" he asked.

"Yes. With a toxin derived from the venom of this spry fellow," the man said, knocking on the scorpion's cage as he walked, causing the creature to rattle its prison. "Keeps the unwanted guests away."

"Like what?"

"All manner of creatures that dig underground. Pests. Both entrances are magically protected. That way I can work in peace."

Harry thought deeper about the laboratory for a moment. Was this... where Voldemort's ideas came from? It was certainly twisted enough.

"Well... if you have something to drink that isn't Firewhiskey, I'd be much obliged."

"I have some potions," the hooded man said, "but I doubt you'd want to drink any of them if you knew what they were."

"In that case, I'll take the whiskey," Harry said.

"Sorry." There was a cruel note in the man's voice. "I gave you the last bottle."

Harry stared into the shadow under the hood for a moment. "You're kidding me, right?"

The man shrugged his shoulders. "It's not my fault you spat out what you drank and spilled the rest," he said with a snicker. His behavior reminded Harry of Snape. To be honest though, Snape wasn't capable of exuding the kind of menacing aura this man had.

"You could at least introduce yourself."

"Why don't you go first. After all, you came to my home."

Harry swallowed, leaning against one of the worktables. "Harry Potter. But I thought you already knew that."

Gloved hands pulled back the hood, revealing a handsome face. Harry could see the similarities. This face bore no marks of the future serpentine transformations, but there was no mistaking Voldemort for anyone else. Even without that, the red eyes alone would have been enough.

"You met my little brother a while ago," he said. "And then you put his own sword through his skull."

Judging by the smirk, Voldemort didn't seem too bothered by that fact. Amused, more like it.

"Ah," Harry said. "You know how it is. Not like he would have let me through to you."

"That was his job."

"I didn't get your name."

Voldemort's doppelganger grinned in the same unsettling manner as Wrath had earlier.

"I am Voldemort's Fear."

Harry's eyebrows rode up. Fear? That was... unexpected. On the other hand, it sort of made sense. Poison in the water, presumably deadly things in cages and dissected corpses...

_Multiple connections to death,_ Harry thought. _Dumbledore used to say it was the only thing Voldemort was afraid of. _

He cleared his throat. It was getting unbearably sore. "So... what kind of research do you do?"

"Harry," Fear said in low tones. "I wouldn't be a very good guardian if I just told those kinds of things to everyone that came by."

"Do you get many visitors?"

The smile faltered, becoming a frown. "Not really. You're first."

"You really can't share anything? Even just a few details? Drop a hint or two?"

The smirk was back. "Wrath was young, naive. I've been around for much longer. I know who you are, Harry. And I know my orders."

"I don't suppose they involve showing me the way forward?" Harry asked. "Oh, fuck this."

Poison or not, he needed water. He had a gut feeling that he was close now. Hopefully he would be able to reach his target before the poison got to him – if it was even real. Voldemort could just be lying.

Cupping his hands together, he gathered some water and splashed his face first before drinking. If there was poison, it was tasteless.

"Couldn't resist, could you?" Fear drawled, arms crossed on his chest. "It makes things easier for me. Even if I can't stop you, the poison will. And now..."

Harry turned just in tome to see him withdraw a large key from his robe and unlocking the four glass cabinets. As soon as he was done with the last one, the corpses' eyes snapped open one by one and they started to detach themselves from various hooks and strings that had been keeping them upright with slow, imprecise moves.

Harry stared in morbid fascination while Voldemort's Fear freed some of his pets. The shark-toothed otter jumped down from the table and began pacing left and right with the grace of a deadly predator. The scorpion almost ripped the cage apart on its own, as if sensing its freedom. The slimy worm fell off the table with a wet splat and began slowly, but surely, crawling in Harry's direction.

_This is not good._

He started backing off instinctively until his back hit a solid wall where one of the exits should have been. He spun around, hands racing nervously across a rectangular slab that was now blocking the path.

The corpses, now free of their bonds, began lumbering towards him like zombies.

"Don't fight me, Harry," Fear said. "The more you struggle, the less pleasant this will be."

Harry plastered himself against the wall, trying to think of a way to get past the horror gallery inching closer with every second.

_Don't panic. There is a way out of this. You just need to think of it._

Voldemort's Fear sat on the edge of the nearest table. "You'll make a fine addition to my collection, Harry."

The scorpion leapt.

There was only one way to go. Harry danced out of the way and narrowly avoided losing his balance as he splashed into the water. The scorpion smacked against the wall and fell on its back. Unable to right itself, it began flailing furiously, legs moving across the ground that wasn't there.

While Harry watched it, the other two creatures used his distraction to sneak into the pool. He only noticed when the green worm, surprisingly agile in water, shot right past him and attempted to wrap itself around his leg. Freaked out and disgusted, Harry lashed out at it, shivering when his hands came into contact with the creature and flopped it back on the floor of the laboratory. The zombies stopped at the edge, as if unsure whether they should enter the water as well until the human corpse made the first step.

Harry dove forward. He wasn't a bad swimmer, but his wet robes and the injuries slowed him down.

He was almost at the other end of the chamber when something clamped down on his leg. He screamed, swallowing water instead of air and hobbled back onto the platform next to the other exit.

The last of Fear's previously caged pets was hanging from his ankle like one of those angry little dogs. He grabbed its head, but he couldn't pry the powerful jaws open and the teeth cut deeper into the muscle with every move.

Harry slumped to the floor, having completely forgotten about the other man in the room. Fear uprighted the scorpion, grabbed it and the worm and dropped both right in front of Harry. The walking corpses also caught up to him and he was now surrounded from all sides. Well, all but one.

He craned his neck to glance at the exit behind him, only to see it close.

Fear patted his leg and the otter let go of Harry's leg, flashed him its teeth, covered in his own blood and scurried over to its owner, up the leg and settled on a shoulder, like Wrath's snake.

"You fought bravely," Fear said. "You gave it your all. But here is where your journey ends."

"Just tell me one thing," Harry said, gasping for air. "Wrath got pissed when I pushed the right buttons. Your name is Fear. What do I need to do to scare you into doing to something stupid?"

A long, pale finger stroked the otter's head and it purred like a cat.

"Your reasoning is not wrong, but it is not quite right either. You're looking for a pattern where there isn't one."

"Isn't there?" Harry asked. "Since you're taking your sweet time with me, you might as well share a secret or two. I don't see a way out of this mess... And it's not like I'll have another shot at this. You'd know how to defend yourself against me if I tried again."

"I'm not a storybook villain, Harry. I won't tell you my secrets just because you appear to be losing at the moment. Secrets must be kept, else they're no longer secrets."

"I did always regret that you were not more easily manipulated."

"As a consolation prize, know that no one else got as far as you have. You have humbled me and I will become stronger for it."

"You? Humbled? I wish your Death Eaters could hear you now."

Fear grinned darkly. "That won't happen, but I can acknowledge talent when I see it. If only you had chosen a different path... you could have been my greatest general."

Harry smiled sadly. "There are days that I wish I had taken your offer." Leaning against the wall, he stood up, putting as little weight on the injured leg as possible. "I don't think I'm getting any further. Let's end this."

His back against the wall, Harry slowly forced his body into a standing position and looked Fear in the eyes defiantly. If this was the end, he sure wasn't going to go out like a coward. But... perhaps there was still a chance. He hadn't played his last card yet.

Fear had absolute control of the chamber. He hadn't moved a finger to close the doors or cast any spell that Harry recognized to animate the corpses, yet Harry had no doubt he was right. He also knew that perfect defense wasn't possible that far in. However hopeless his current situation seemed, there _had_ to be an exit. His next move would be a risky gamble, but he had no other ideas at the moment.

"I would appreciate it if you made it quick," he said. "I know that mercy isn't something you're overly fond of and I don't expect you to let me off easy when we're back out... but my mind is something very precious to me. If nothing else, I'd like to keep that, at least."

Fear stepped forward and placed his hands on Harry's shoulders. His quiet laugh resonated around the chamber, the sound magnified tenfold.

"Of course. How could I refuse a dying man's last request?"

Fear looked up at Harry, meeting his gaze. Harry grabbed the front of his enemy's robe, pulling him closer.

"I can't believe you fell for that," he hissed. _"Legilimens!"_

Harry lanced into the depths of of Fear's being, tearing through the memories he was born from. There was one theme connecting them all – death. Dumbledore had been right. There was nothing that instilled a more profound sense of terror in Voldemort than death. The Dark Lord was afraid of not existing. Of _not mattering_. There were hints hidden here of the steps he'd taken to avoid the mortal fate, but no solid memories. Those had to be hidden elsewhere.

Harry struck in the middle of the whirlwind of memories, scattering them in all directions and then he extended his arms and _pulled_ them back to himself, forming everything into a spherical mass of concentrated dread, squeezing harder and harder, until it was small enough to hold between two fingers. Then he pushed it into the center of Fear's being, enveloping his essence, all that gave him consciousness, in dark, murky nothingness.

It was a trap that few could escape. Fear would find his way out eventually, but by the time he did, Harry hoped to be long gone from his domain.

Back in the chamber, Harry let go of his captor and the body tumbled to the floor. His fingers were twitching and his eyes evidently moved behind the closed eyelids, but for now, he was neutralized.

Harry fell back again when the slab of stone blocking his way out slid into the wall. Grunting, he pulled his legs up to his chin, barely avoiding the corpses' hands as they met with an invisible barrier, keeping them inside the laboratory. The scorpion ran straight into it, bounced back and lunged forward again, trying to get to its prey, driven by mindless stubbornness.

Harry rolled over and climbed to his feet, using the wall for support and surveyed the ascending tunnel before him.

So close and yet so far.

~~oOo~~

He limped forward, inch by inch getting closer to his destination. Walls of the tunnel were moving in and out in his vision, as if he was walking inside a giant lung. So far in, Voldemort's mindscape was beginning to blur and scraps of memories floated around, scurrying across the rocky surface. It had to cost the Dark Lord all his willpower to maintain the delicate balance and not let everything collapse on itself.

The air seemed to vibrate with Dark magic and sometimes Harry lost sight of where he was going for a few moments when passing through a particularly strong current. He moved faster now, his leg having gone almost completely numb. He didn't have much time left before his own mind couldn't tolerate the strain anymore.

The tunnel turned out to be thankfully short and soon he saw light reaching from around a bend. Squinting at it as his eyes adjusted, he hobbled forward and finally stepped outside into a bright winter day.

He stood at the edge of a circular clearing, surrounded by a lush, green forest. Tall, slender trees with grey trunks stood so close to each other that there seemed to be no way to move between them. The sun hung high in the sky, its light reflecting off of the snow that covered the entire clearing, except for the middle.

At the center was what looked like a circular arena. Its floor was smooth granite and surrounding it were countless pedestals. Some were so tiny they resembled short staves, others as big as tables. Most were occupied, some by single objects, others by statues of wizards, witches and magical creatures. One in particular caught his attention.

It was Dumbledore.

He stood proud and tall, wand raised, his cloak billowing around him. A golden plaque with his name engraved was nailed to the stone at his feet.

On a much smaller pedestal next to Dumbledore's statue laid a replica of his wand. Harry had always found it a bit peculiar. It was unlike any other wand he'd ever seen. He never paid it much mind – he supposed an extraordinary wizard like Dumbledore would have a wand befitting his status. Now, however, it caught his attention.

Deathstick

A wand with a name was one thing. A wand described as the artifact from a legend was another. No one in the Order except Dumbledore and Harry himself thought much about the Tale of Three Brothers. Finding hidden meanings in old fables was the Headmaster's favorite pastime.

Harry's mind raced. Could it be possible? Was there truth in the story? Were the Deathly Hallows more than just a legend?

To the left, he saw another statue. The wizard it depicted was the opposite of Dumbledore in every aspect – he was scruffy, his robes made Remus' look brand new and he was slouching, holding his wand in a weak grip. Harry glanced at the plaque.

Morfin Gaunt

_Gaunt? Voldemort's relative, then?_

Further left, on another of the smaller pedestals laid a ring. A heavy golden band was decorated with a dark jewel. The symbol inscribed on it was instantly recognizable to any Seeker – Wand, Stone and Cloak. The Deathly Hallows. Its plaque left nothing to imagination.

Resurrection Stone

Another pair of pedestals, one big, one small, stood a little behind Dumbledore and Morfin Gaunt. Harry's eyes were drawn to a familiar object: his father's cloak. It had served him well for many years until he lost it during a Death Eater raid on one of their safehouses several years ago.

He tried to touch it, but the fabric glimmered under his fingers like a liquid and he only grabbed air. He almost didn't want to guess what the engraving would say.

Cloak of Invisibility

But the biggest surprise was nailed to the empty pedestal. It was _his_ name.

"It's been waiting for you for a long time."

Harry spun around, wincing at the sting of pain from the injured leg. He circled the statue of Dumbledore, trodding slowly through the snow, until the arena came back into his view.

Yet another incarnation of Voldemort stood there. His features weren't entirely human, but not quite snakelike. The face was a bit longer, the nose a bit flatter, lips a bit thinner – but despite all that, he still somehow managed to look regal and imposing. The impression was aided by the objects he wielded: the Cloak draped around his shoulders, the ring with the Stone on his finger and the Wand, its tip pointed nonchalantly at the floor.

"Feast your eyes, Harry Potter," he said. "I have many trophies in my collection."

Harry stepped onto the granite, ignoring the pain pulsating in every part of his battered body.

"So... what's your name?"

Voldemort moved and Harry couldn't help but stare. The Dark Lord stalked toward him with deadly grace, like a cat on the prowl. He possessed an elegance that was absent from his physical self, lost long ago in pursuit of power and immortality.

"I am Voldemort's Pride."

Harry glanced at the Cloak again.

"I've been wondering what happened to it. Figures that you'd get your hands on it."

Pride smiled coldly. "It was a stroke of luck that you left it behind when I sent Lucius to London that day. At last, I had the last piece of the puzzle."

"The Hallows are real then?" Harry asked. "Makes you wonder how much of the Tale of Three Brothers is true."

"I have no reason to doubt any of it," Pride said. "The legend told the truth. The prize for mastering all three Hallows was very much real."

Harry's eyes widened in surprise. "You can't mean-"

"That I am the Master of Death?" Pride interrupted him, twirling the Elder Wand in his long fingers. "So little faith, Harry. That's precisely why you could never achieve your true potential. There is more to magic than simple wand-waving. It is a vice sadly prevalent in youths who think that books and studying are enough. They have their place, but mastery must be pursued. You can't do that sitting in a library."

"Master of Death..." Harry said slowly, tasting the words. The title sounded alien to him. He had seen too much death to believe that anyone could master it. Most of the time, you didn't even see it coming. Neville certainly hadn't. "What does that mean, exactly? Are you immortal?"

Pride laughed. "To be immortal, one must be alive."

Harry considered what that implicated. "Are you saying you're dead? An inferius that kept its mind intact?"

"Bah. I'm not a walking corpse. I am neither living nor dead. I simply am."

"Those are big words."

"I do not question the gifts that Death bestows."

"But this is not permanent, is it?" Harry asked. "If you lose just one of the Hallows... you'll be mortal again."

Pride glanced at him, looking very pleased with himself. "I am the greatest wizard that ever lived. If someone succeeds in taking the Hallows from me, they deserve to keep them."

"You're chatting. How _nice_."

Harry spun around when he saw Pride looking at something – or someone – over his shoulder.

Wrath stood at the mouth of the tunnel. His limbs were mangled in ways that should make it impossible for him to move, but he was walking towards Harry, stomping through the snow. The sword was still stuck in his head.

When he reached the arena, he grabbed the hilt and started pulling it out, screaming as he did. The sword came free eventually, dripping blood. Wrath flipped it in his hand and pointing the blade at Harry, lunged forward with a yell...

...only to be stopped by his elder counterpart. Pride flicked the Wand and Wrath was sent stumbling sideways.

"WHAT?" Wrath demanded, glaring at Pride.

"Patience, little brother. We must wait for the rest."

As soon as Pride spoke, Fear emerged from the tunnel, looking mildly annoyed. He joined them on the arena.

"Interesting tactic," he said to Harry. "It answers the question of how you turn captives into mindless husks. I'll have to remember that."

Harry discreetly looked around, trying to maintain a safe distance between himself and Wrath. He was the most likely to try to end this quickly. He needed a few more minutes.

The entire clearing was heavy with magic. The invisible currents met and crossed in the air. If he concentrated, he could almost see through the veil of the image Voldemort was projecting and spot more memory fragments all around him. It was a sign that the Dark Lord's willpower was waning. No one voluntarily ventured so deep inside their own mind and yet he was maintaining conscious control. Even so, Harry was too exhausted himself to shatter the illusion completely. In a battle of attrition, Voldemort would prevail.

All signs pointed to the main nexus being located in the middle of the arena. Pride surely knew his domain inside out. He wouldn't let Harry anywhere near there.

_I need a distraction._

He leaned on his injured leg, stumbling when the pain intensified and half-stepped, half-jumped awkwardly, brushing against Wrath, who snarled at him angrily. From there, it wasn't hard to feint falling. He reached up, but something in the corner of his vision drew his attention.

_So that's what he meant by 'the rest'. _

From the tunnel a procession of everything he'd met along the way was coming. Fear's menagerie arrived first, with the faster of creatures taking the lead while the four walking corpses lumbered behind. Before all of them were out of the tunnel, Wrath's snakes appeared – from the distance they looked like a moving, living carpet rolling out onto the slow.

Last came the ghosts. They shot up straight from the ground in a swirling cloud of gray-white smoke before taking on their humanoid shapes.

"It seems we have a marauder," Pride said.

Harry followed Pride's gaze. While everything else was surrounding the arena, a swift shadow moved between the trees. It kept blinking in and out of sight until it was opposite from the tunnel's exit.

The trees uprooted themselves and parted, moving out of the way of whatever was hiding behind them. The enormous head appeared first.

The fact that he had guessed correctly did nothing to set Harry's mind at ease.

Slytherin's Monster slithered into the clearing, somehow manoeuvring between the pedestals without crushing any of them. It found a patch of clear ground and rested there, raising the front half of its massive body into the air, higher than a house. Its head began swaying slightly from side to side.

Harry noticed that all three of Voldemort's apparitions were presently more interested in their pets than him. This was his only chance.

Grunting, he jumped to his feet. His strained muscles screamed in protest, but he fought back the pain with a yell and grabbed Wrath's armed hand, twisting it. The boy easily let go of the sword. Harry pushed him back as hard as he could, spun around and threw his arm forward, plunging the thin blade into Fear's chest.

Fear stared at him, bewildered, but Harry didn't see it. He was already lunging at Pride, forcing himself to ignore the pain – it wasn't far now.

He was perhaps ten feet away from the central nexus when Wrath and Pride tackled him to the ground. A split second later he felt cold fingers of the ghosts wrap around his legs. Wrath's snakes advanced, hissing furiously, but Fear's scorpion got to him first. The sting pierced his cheek and the venom set his face on fire.

With his vision failing, he reached forward with one free arm. The nexus was literally inches away, he could feel the magic pulsating like an immaterial heart-

Voldemort's scream pierced his ears and suddenly the pain was no more. Harry blinked, trying to understand what just happened. Pride and Wrath were nowhere in sight, the scorpion and the ghosts were gone... In fact, so was the rest of the illusion.

He was suspended in nothingness, surrounded by images, sounds and smells. Voldemort's memories were laid out before him, and at the center of everything there was a flame, small, but burning with the intensity of a star. The Dark Lord's soul, within his grasp.

Grinning devilishly, Harry closed his hand into a fist around it.

There are things worse than death.


End file.
